


We Only Get Better With Age

by sneakyslytherin



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: After The Sign Of Three, Before His Last Vow, F/M, Fluff, Growing Old Together, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Old Age, Oneshot, Patient Sherlock, The Sign of Three Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-09
Updated: 2014-02-09
Packaged: 2018-01-11 17:24:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1175809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sneakyslytherin/pseuds/sneakyslytherin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes and John Watson parted ways soon after John's wedding, and not necessarily on amicable terms. Sherlock has been pining ever since, immersing himself in his work and routine like a man possessed. Years later, in a coffee shop, they run into each other again. Will things be different this time around? </p>
<p>T for mild language. Initially set after TSOT but before HLV. Eventually set much, much later. As they say, some things only get better with age. ;)</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Only Get Better With Age

Sherlock had learned many lessons over the course in his life, but considered very few to be difficult. Yes, advanced calculus may have been a touch tricky, and sharing had never been his specialty, but mostly everything in his life had been relatively easy. By the time Sherlock was 15, he’d decided that he’d learned almost everything he wanted to, and that he’d never have to care about any other lessons ever again. But he was wrong.

            The most challenging lesson that Sherlock ever had to learn was when he was thirty-seven, and its morals and consequences slowly ate away at his soul; Sherlock had to learn how to pretend to be happy. How to smile when he should, how to keep himself from thinking about the ‘what if’s and the ‘maybe’s, how to look Mary in the eye without feeling an overwhelming urge to leave the room. Sherlock had to learn to dole out the meaningless platitudes when John proudly showed him his daughter’s ultrasound photos, and tried to avoid noticing the contentment and happiness that filled every room that the doctor entered. 

            Eventually Sherlock tried to push his friend away, barely able to stand his presence and his constant nattering about ‘Mary, Mary, Mary’. It nearly killed Sherlock to watch John stomp out into the rain one day, after yelling at Sherlock about the carefully-planted (and untouched – never going to be touched) cocaine in the flat.

            “…what’s this?” John had asked, his voice dangerously low.

            “Nothing,” Sherlock had replied nonchalantly, using every ounce of his willpower to remain calm and collected. “Just ignore it.”

            “Sherlock,” John said slowly, the anger evident in his tone, “this is very, _very_ not good.”

            The detective didn’t reply, picking up his violin and collapsing down into his chair instead. He didn’t feel like sitting, and he definitely didn’t feel like playing, but it gave him something to do instead of throwing himself across the room and apologizing.

            “Sherlock,” John continued, “this…this can’t happen. Not now. I can’t…I can’t be around someone who uses this stuff! I’m a bloody doctor, for Christ’s sake, and you’re a chemist – don’t you know what this does to you!?”

            “It releases me,” Sherlock thought. _From you_ , he finished in his head. _It will release me from you, and then it will be gone._

            “Fuck – Sherlock, I thought you were fine!” John shouted, his face becoming red and flushed. “You’ve been clean for years, you don’t need this _stuff_! We could send you to rehab, or, or-”

            “It’s not as if you live here anymore,” Sherlock replied coolly. “I may do what I wish in my spare time.”

            John was silent for a moment, but Sherlock still didn’t look up. Instead, he watched his pale fingers flutter up and down the strings of his violin, ghosting over chords that he wasn’t going to play, notes that would never bridge the gap that he was currently creating.

            “Fine,” John said quietly, and Sherlock could almost feel the doctor’s cold, military gaze on the top of his head. “Do what you want, Sherlock. Just don’t expect me, Mary, or our girl to be a part of it.”

            The words shredded Sherlock’s heart to ribbons, but then again it had already been fragile and unstable. _Sentiment._ _A chemical defect found in the losing side…_

            “Do what you want,” Sherlock said, flapping his hand in what he hoped was the direction of the door, carefully keeping his eyes fixed downwards. The words sent shards of glass into his soul, and Sherlock could feel himself shattering as he attempted to remain stoic and detached.

            The room was quiet, filled with a pregnant silence as if John was going to say something else to try and chastise Sherlock into accepting his help and advice. Part of Sherlock desperately wished for John’s plea, knowing that there was no way he could continue to resist his blogger, but another part insisted that Sherlock finish the plan, remain strong. _Please just leave, John. Leave me alone._

            In the end, John said nothing else. Sherlock didn’t see him leave, but he heard the flat door slam, and then the outer door a few moments afterwards. Tentatively, Sherlock stood and shuffled over to the window, his actions lackluster and restrained. _It’s for the best_ , Sherlock thought flatly, watching John pull his collar up around his ears and stalk down the street with his powerful, short strides. It could have been the rain on the window that was obstructing Sherlock’s vision, but he knew that it really wasn’t. And that was what terrified him.

 

            A few weeks later, Sherlock accepted a request from the Italian _carabinieri_ to help track down a vicious serial killer with a particular obsession for laying out his victims like insects in a collection. For almost a month Sherlock busied himself with blood spatter analysis, the diameter and composition of the long pins used to secure the victims to the ground, and the possible motives for what the media had dubbed the ‘Creepy-Crawler Killer’. Sherlock was efficient, as usual, and determined that the _carabinieri_ were even less intelligent than the staff at NSY. He made a mental note to be less hard on Lestrade in the future.

            As he went through the motions, however, collecting evidence, questioning witnesses, and being an obnoxious arse to anyone who dared hamper his train of thought, Sherlock couldn’t entirely ignore the ache in his chest. There was a noticeable empty space on his left, and a distinct friction between himself and the police that was a result of his unchecked temper. It took Sherlock twice the time to do any sort of legwork, being forced to assume personas and do his share of the work as well as what John would have done. Being away from the familiar London landmarks helped, but flashes of England seemed to continuously appear throughout Italy; the tall clock tower in the Venetian Saint Marc’s Square looked eerily similar to Big Ben when seen out of the corner of one’s eye, and the Duomo in Florence had a roof the exact same shape and diameter as Saint Paul’s cathedral. Every tall, white-bricked building seemed to be Saint Bart’s, and every narrow edifice hinted at containing flats similar to 221B. At the end of every day, Sherlock would return to his emotionless, bare hotel room, alone, and curl up on the bed until his mind would allow him to enter the welcome oblivion of sleep.

            Only it wasn’t oblivion. Far too often Sherlock’s dreams were filled with flashes of blonde hair and blue eyes, snatches of familiar laughter, the smell of perfectly-made earl grey tea. Sometimes, the dreams would move beyond that, and Sherlock would catch glimpses of skin and hear snatches of breathy conversation. Every morning Sherlock would wake feeling gritty and horrible, the bitter taste of sleep heavy on his tongue, the dreams and memories from the past night engraved in his mind. And yet, every night Sherlock would try to sleep, try to return to the reminiscent images and potential fantasies from a time that he had ended.

            After just over a month, Sherlock solved the case. In the end it was rather anti-climactic – the killer turned out to be an entomologist with an abusive father and perverse interest in people with freckles – and Sherlock was thanked for his time and told to go home. It took the detective a while to return, making strange detours in Switzerland and Germany for supposed ‘potential cases’, and generally meandering about Europe and delaying his return as much as possible.

            Until, one day when he was on a train to Brussels, Sherlock received a text from Mycroft.

 

_Stop delaying, brother. Come home. ~MH_

_**Not delaying. Working. ~SH**_

**** _Do not take me for a fool, Sherlock. I can see what you’re doing. ~MH_

            Sherlock didn’t reply. A few moments later, however, his phone buzzed again.

           

            _There’s no need to fear London – John Watson has moved to Abingdon. ~MH_

_**I do not fear London. ~SH**_

**** _No. You’ve carried your fear with you all across Europe. ~MH_

_**Poetry has never suited you, Mikey. ~SH**_

**** _Shyla Caroline Watson was born two weeks ago. ~MH_

_Thought you might want to know. ~MH_

 

            Sherlock viciously stuffed his phone into his jacket pocket, ignoring all of its buzzing and beeping as he was bombarded with more texts from Mycroft (not overly likely, he’d had the last word) and Lestrade (very likely – was sitting beside Mycroft and was concerned for Sherlock’s well-being). Staring blankly out of the train window, not noticing the gorgeous landscape passing by, Sherlock felt the last of his sentiment crystallize and freeze into place within his chest. _You’re almost back where you started_ , Sherlock thought bitterly. _Only now…now you know what it’s like to feel, to hurt, to love. And that knowledge will continue to nip at your heels until you die, you stupid man…._

            As Sherlock stared into nothingness, he felt his last shreds of optimistic, ridiculous hope slip out of his grasp – the hope of a fire, or a car crash, or _something_ that would render Mary Morstan and her child out of the picture and would bring John back to him. _Hope is dangerous_ , _Sherlock. Didn’t Mycroft ever teach you anything?_

            Yet despite Sherlock’s best intentions, even as the long nights morphed into years and the years into decades, John Watson was never far from his thoughts.

 

 

            Sherlock was trying to work, and was incredibly irritated by the noisy, young barista who seemed to be singing to herself as she prepared his coffee. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock slouched even further behind his newspaper and attempted to block out the white noise of the surrounding café. Ever since Mrs Hudson had passed on five or so years ago, Sherlock had been forced to feed himself on a regular basis or face starvation. This meant that his diet consisted largely of take-away and eating out, which in turn meant that almost every Sunday morning found him holed up inside this particular café. Only two blocks away from Baker Street, the walk wasn’t too much for Sherlock’s 67-year-old knees, and the staff were usually quiet and polite to the strange, tall, lonely man who seemed to complete a ridiculous amount of crossword puzzles.

            This female employee, however, was obviously new. “Order up!” she said loudly as she placed Sherlock’s coffee in front of him with a dazzling grin. Unmoved by her attempted optimism and charm, Sherlock merely grunted and looked back down at his crossword. This week’s seemed particularly arduous, although potentially that was solely a function of the extra distraction.

            Sherlock was so engrossed in his puzzle that he barely noticed the clinking of the bell over the shop door, and didn’t hear the measured steps of a customer walking across the room up to the counter. “What can I get for you sir?” Sherlock barely heard the barista ask.

            “Just a tea please,” a warm, deep voice replied.

            Sherlock froze, midway through writing a letter. That was a voice he hadn’t heard in a very long time, a voice tinted by age but still filled with the resonance and confidence that it had acquired during its youth.

            “Oh, and just white please,” the voice continued. “No sugar.”

            _That’s impossible_ , Sherlock thought, his entire body rigid. _No, no, no,_ the voice of his brother said, echoing within his mind palace. _Once you’ve eliminated the impossible whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. Surely even you remember that, Shirley…_

            “What’s the name sir?” the barista asked, peppy as she placed the order into the computer.

            “John,” the man said simply.

 

And Sherlock fell, for the third time in his life.

 

Panic immediately flooded the detective’s system, overwhelming his powers of rational thought and reason. Seeing the figure in the corner of his eye, – short, stocky, grey hair but _oh_ how he recognized that silhouette – Sherlock shifted so that he knew John couldn’t see his face. Acting as casual as possible, Sherlock drained his coffee – _scalding, bitter_ – in one gulp – _painful, do not repeat_ – and pushed his chair back. Typically Sherlock sat at the table furthest from the door just to avoid the constant traffic of that area, but never more had he regretted his antisocial choices. Now the distance between him and the door was much, much further.

Keeping his newspaper up, semi-folded, obscuring his face, Sherlock edged around the periphery of the room and attempted to make his movements as subtle and normal as possible. John was on his phone, a ghost of a smile visible at the corner of his face – _that smile, oh God –_ and Sherlock just prayed desperately that he wouldn’t look up.

He was so close to the door, only half a table away, when John spoke up without looking away from his phone. “Did you tip her?” he said, his voice low and quiet.

“Sorry?” the barista said, turning around with a furrowed brow.

John’s face darted up, and despite the fact that Sherlock could only see the back of his head, the detective knew that he’d be smiling. “Oh, I wasn’t talking to you, sorry,” he apologized, tilting his head forward. “I was talking to Sherlock.”

Immediately, Sherlock’s heart plummeted. “How did you know?” he asked, his voice raspy and broken as he resignedly folded his newspaper and turned to face the center of the coffee shop.

John shrugged, turning to face Sherlock. “I’d recognize those curls anywhere, even if you are going grey.”

John Hamish Watson only improved with age, Sherlock decided. Blonde hair had been replaced with salt-and-pepper grey, and there were crow’s feet and laugh lines around his eyes and mouth, but John’s gaze had lost none of his enthusiasm, nor had he lost any of his poise and solidity. He was now…oh God, John was now 72 years old. And he didn’t look a day over sixty. Self-consciously running his hand through his grey-black hair, Sherlock tried to stand a bit taller and act a bit less like he was feeling every single chase and near-death experience in his joints.

Surprising Sherlock and sending a frisson of warmth down his spine, John smiled. “God, you’ve aged well,” he said with a laugh. “I look positively ancient compared to you!”

“Not at all,” Sherlock blurted out. “Obviously…” Sherlock winced. “…obviously domesticity has suited you well, John.”

John’s face faltered slightly, and a flash of sadness passed through his blue eyes, but was gone so quickly Sherlock could have almost believe that he’d imagined it. “Let me buy you a coffee?” John asked, gesturing back towards Sherlock’s old table. “For old time’s sake?”

A sharp knife twisted in Sherlock’s heart at the exact same time that it did a staccato tap dance of joy. “Of course,” Sherlock said, heading back to his table and regretting his unnecessarily burnt tongue. “But you have to tip the barista. She has frankly awful taste in music.”

As Sherlock sat down, he cautiously attempted to cordon off his mind palace. _There will be no untimely deductions,_ he promised, _no strange outbursts, no judgements. Not today._ With only a short delay as John and the barista shared a brief, but enthusiastic, conversation about the merits of some atrocious modern band, Sherlock was sitting down, facing the love of his life, with a cup of steaming coffee in his hands. Just the way he’d taken it thirty years earlier. “You have a good memory,” Sherlock said quietly, stirring his coffee aimlessly.

John shrugged, taking a generous sip from his tea. “For some things,” he replied evasively, his smile small but still present. “Things like wash day and boyfriend names? Not quite so much.”

Sherlock gave a small chuckle for the poor gentlemen who’d been forced to confront John as their girlfriend’s father. “How is she?” Sherlock asked tentatively. “Your daughter.”

“Oh, Shyla?” John said, a smile subconsciously easing its way onto his face, looking as if it permanently belonged there. “She’s doing fantastic. She’ll turn thirty in November, and she and her boyfriend are celebrating their third year anniversary.”

“No…no grandchildren?” Sherlock asked, the word like lead on his tongue.

John shuddered. “No, thankfully,” he said with a sigh. “Shyla doesn’t really want children – she and Patrick are both journalists, and travel a fair bit, and children would only bog them down, really.”

“You’d make a fantastic grandfather,” Sherlock said before he could help himself.

John raised a single eyebrow. “That seems very non-Sherlockian,” he said. “Have you had a brain transplant over the past thirty years, or something?”

Shaking his head, Sherlock took a careful sip of his coffee. _No deductions, no deductions, no deductions._ “No, nothing much has changed,” he said quietly. “I still work cases -”

“At sixty-seven?!” John exclaimed, shocked.

_He remembered my age_ , Sherlock thought immediately. “Yes,” he said out loud, tempering the victory dance that his mind was doing. “Although I attempt to steer away from cases involving significant amounts of legwork.”

John laughed riotously at that point, his eyes wide as saucers and his crow’s feet crinkling in an adorable, beautiful manner. Sherlock added that to his already-substantial file on little, wonderful things about his beloved blogger. “You sounded so much like Mycroft,” John said, grinning, his laughter having subsided.

“I resent that!” Sherlock said loudly, his eyebrows shooting up. “Mycroft has put two stone in the past few years and is now happily _retired._ ” Sherlock said the word as if it were dripping in acid. His expression was one of sheer contempt. “In no way do I bear any similarities to my brother, John.”

Raising his hands in supplication, John leaned backwards in his chair. “Fair enough,” he said, reaching for another sip of tea.

“What about you?” Sherlock asked, trying to fill the impending silence. “Are you still working at seventy-three?”

John smiled faintly. “No, no I’m not,” he sighed. “Too old, too tired, too everything. There really wasn’t anything left for me in Abingdon when I left the clinic, so I thought I’d try things out again in London.”

“Where are you staying?”

“Oh, nowhere all that special,” John said, deflecting the question. “Are you still holed up in 221B?”

“Of course,” Sherlock scoffed, sipping his coffee. “Where else would I be?”

“I was only wondering,” John said quickly, looking down. “I just…well, after Mrs Hudson passed away I didn’t know if…well, if you’d still be there.”

Sherlock stiffened slightly, but managed to maintain his casual tone. “I thought I’d have seen you at the funeral,” the detective said flatly.

Anxiously running his hand through his hair, John looked up and painfully met Sherlock’s scrutinizing gaze. “I tried,” he said softly. “I did, I just – well, five years ago was a really rough time for me, and I just couldn’t pull myself away for two days. I sent a -”

“-a card, yes, I know,” Sherlock said frostily. “Seems a bit detached, doesn’t it?”

“That’s rich, coming from _you_ ,” John said, letting out a bitter laugh. “Mrs Hudson and I spoke every week over the phone – she’d have known why I didn’t make it down.”

The first feeling Sherlock felt was betrayal – _Mrs Hudson was talking to John and she never told me. Never mentioned it. Not once_. The second feeling he felt was curiosity, and Sherlock had never learned how to resist a decent curious impulse. “What was so important that you had to miss your landlady’s funeral?” Sherlock asked, his voice filled with obviously false concern.

John slumped, and the detective immediately regretted his inquiry. There was a tense, sad silence that settled over the table, and Sherlock could have kicked himself for his own stupidity. “Why don’t you deduce it?” John asked softly. “I’d have thought you’d rattled it off by now, to be honest. I’ve never…well, I’ve never been much good at telling people. It’d be nice if you could just…y’know…see it.”

“…are you sure, John?” Sherlock asked, concerned about what John could be so upset about. But now…now John was giving him permission to look him over and turn him inside out. It was a strangely intimate request.

“Yes,” John said firmly, looking up to meet Sherlock’s gaze. “I’m sure.”

“Well,” Sherlock said, his mind immediately whirring into action, “you said that Shyla was fine, and therefore it’s unlikely an issue with her – it makes no sense that you would speak about her and then _refuse_ to speak about her over the course of two minutes.” Sherlock immediately noticed the smile that crept over John’s face as he made his deductions, and heard the echo of _‘fantastic’_ flutter through his mind.

“Therefore, since it’s not Shyla, and you have such strong family values, it’s something wrong with either Harry or Mary.” Sherlock paused. “It can’t be Harry; you’re still using her old phone, and you haven’t bitten down the edges of your cuticles like you tend to do when you worry about her drinking. Most likely she’s settled in with that new girl, Amy, and is living happily far away from you and your family.”

“True,” John said, grinning. “All true. You even got her gender right this time.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but smile. “Oh shut up,” he snapped affectionately before continuing. “So, if it’s not Shyla, and it’s not Harry, it must be Mary. You’re still wearing your wedding ring, so it’s not a divorce” - _Oh no Sherlock, stop this now –_ “and you said specifically that there wasn’t anything left for _you_ in Abington, rather than _us_ or _you and Mary_ ,” _stop now, don’t, just STOP –_ “so therefore she didn’t come to London with you. If this crisis was so great that you had to miss Mrs Hudson’s funeral, that would strongly indicate” – _you fucking arse_ – “….a terminal disease of some sort.” _Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes._

John, however, rather than burst into tears or slap Sherlock across the face, just nodded sadly. “Ovarian cancer, five years ago,” he said flatly. “It metastasized incredibly quickly, and…well, there wasn’t much to be done except wait.”

“I…I’m sorry for your loss,” Sherlock thought, wrestling with the concept of no more Mary in the world, no more ridiculous laughter, no more awkward hugs and strangely patterned blouses. No more Mary Watson. Once, long ago, he had wished her dead; now his wish was a reality, and Sherlock felt nauseous.

“Well, I think she was happy in the end at least,” John said quietly. “I mean, Shyla was off doing great with the BBC, I was alright at the clinic; she had done what she came here to do, and her family was in a good place. In the end that was…well, that was really what she cared about.”

“Sorry to have brought it up,” Sherlock said, putting every ounce of sincerity that he possessed into his words.

John gave him a sad smile. “I’m alright now,” he said softly. “I mean, I still miss her like hell, every day, but Shyla keeps me right.”

“Stay with me,” Sherlock blurted out suddenly.

John blinked. “…sorry?”

“You’re obviously staying in a horrid bedsit that you can’t afford,” Sherlock said quickly, noticing the rumpled state of John’s clothes typical of the closets in bedsits that were built slightly too small to minimize cost as well as clothing space. “221B still has a spare bedroom, and the other building tenants are manageable. Stay with me.”

John stared at Sherlock for a few moments in blank confusion. “I…well…I, I don’t know what to say.”

“Say yes,” Sherlock said firmly, smiling.

“Are…shit…” John rubbed his hand through his hair.  “This is a total dick question Sherlock, I know, but…are you clean? I mean, well -”

“I’m completely fine,” Sherlock interrupted. “Nothing in the flat except Tylenol.”

In Sherlock’s opinion, John’s smile could have melted the stars. “That…that sounds brilliant, Sherlock,” John said happily. “I can pop over tomorrow with my things -”

“Nonsense!” Sherlock said loudly, pushing back his chair and standing up. “That bedsit is _killing_ your spine, and at your age that is simply unacceptable. We’ll move your hideous jumper collection right this very moment.”

John laughed warmly and eased his way onto his feet, following Sherlock out of the store and to the right towards the bedsit. “You know,” he said, quickening his steps subconsciously to keep up with the detective’s long strides. “I’ve genuinely missed you, Sherlock Holmes.”

A flood of warmth filled Sherlock’s body that had nothing to do with sunlight or his coat, and everything to do with the kindness radiating from his companion who was once again in his proper place, at his side. _I’ve missed you too_ , Sherlock thought. _More than I could possibly say._

 

 

            Life with John Watson was even better than Sherlock remembered it being before. They still ordered far too much take-away, and watched far too much crap telly, and kept very strange hours filled with nightmares and violins. John still came out with Sherlock on his cases, despite the fact that Greg had long-since retired and usually the cases were relatively minor and simple. This time around, though, there were no intrusive girlfriends in the flat, no shifts to keep (or, most likely, _miss_ ) at the clinic, and very few times when they quarrelled. Sherlock was settling into a domestic lifestyle, and found that he didn’t actually mind the free time and the frequent quiet.

In fact, Sherlock was certain that he loved every single second of his life. It was as if he were a drowning man who was suddenly given his own personal spring of water to carry with him wherever he went. The bounce returned to the detective’s step, and he even allowed himself to skip a few Sunday morning crosswords in order to simply enjoy the beauty and simplicity of his coffee with John.

Each night, sitting in front of the fire at 221B, resting in the well-worn but oh-so-familiar red and green chairs, John and Sherlock would talk. Over the course of these late-night conversations, Sherlock learned all about Mary, and Shyla, and the life that John had lived without him for thirty years. Sometimes it hurt Sherlock to realize how happy John had been without the adrenaline, the mystery in his life, but usually the detective was fine with it. John was here, then he left, and now he was back again and _that_ was what mattered. His John. Back where he belonged.

One particularly calm, leisurely day, after Sherlock had meandered down to Tesco to pick up more milk and a new carton of eggs that wasn’t contaminated with live algae samples, Sherlock came back into the flat and nearly had a heart attack. There, in his kitchen, stood the ghost of Mary Watson, come back to haunt him and punish him for loving her husband. Sherlock nearly dropped the milk.

_But no…wait, the eyes are wrong._ She had the same blonde hair, and the same feminine hourglass figure, but her eyes…they weren’t Mary’s eyes, kind and carefree. No, those were John’s eyes, and Sherlock would recognize them anywhere. In a fraction of a second the universe settled back into place, and Sherlock’s heart rate settled back down to normal. Miraculously, the milk and eggs were still in his hands. “Hello, Shyla,” he said calmly, a smile appearing on his face. “I’m Sherlock.”

“I know who you are, Mister Holmes,” the young woman said, her voice gentle and sweet. “Dad’s told me all about you and your crazy adventures.”

Sherlock laughed, moving towards where she stood in order to access the fridge and put away the groceries. “Long, long ago, Miss Waston,” Sherlock said wistfully. “We’re only old men now.”

“Old men who refuse to act their age,” Shyla said, a note of concern in her voice. “When Dad called me the other night, he said you two had been out the entire night before on a _stake out_.”

“…yes?”

“In a _meat packing plant_.”

“Evidence,” Sherlock said simply closing the fridge door with a satisfying slam. “It had to be done.”

Shyla sighed and Sherlock turned to see her shaking her head with a smile. “You two are exactly the same,” she said laughing. “Mum was absolutely right about you – you’re just like a pair of bloody teenagers.”

“No,” a voice called from up the stairs. Sherlock’s posture instantly relaxed as he recognized John’s voice, and he felt suddenly at home. “I’d say we’re much closer to toddlers, wouldn’t you Sherlock?”

“Much closer,” the detective agreed, knowing he was grinning like a fool. “Absolutely insufferable.”

When John finally reached the lower floor, his joints creaking, he embraced his only daughter in a tight hug. “How are you, love?” he asked, burying his face in her neck.

“Brilliant, Dad,” she replied, affection obvious in her tone. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you too. How’s Patrick?”

And so the evening settled into a strange facsimile of domesticity, with Sherlock and John sitting in their usual chairs and Shyla half-sprawled in front of the fire, all of them chatting and drinking and at one point even playing a particularly enthusiastic game of Cluedo that, embarrassingly, Sherlock lost.

When the time came for Shyla to leave, hugs were exchanged by everyone, and Sherlock even got a kiss on the cheek from the young Watson. “It was lovely to finally meet you, Mister Holmes,” she said softly as her father shuffled away to get her coat. “I’m so happy that you and Dad made up. He’s been so sad after Mum and…well…I think you’re just what he needs.”

Sherlock smiled softly and gave the girl a dry kiss on the cheek. “I’m sure we’ll meet again soon, Shyla,” he assured her, giving her a polite but affectionate nod.

After John had helped Shyla into her coat, the door shut with a click and the two men were left alone once more. “Thanks for that,” John said quietly. “I know you…well, I know you don’t care much for strangers, but -”

“Shyla isn’t a stranger,” Sherlock insisted. “She’s your daughter. She’s family.”

John was silent for a long time, and when Sherlock finally turned to face him there were tears sparking in the doctor’s eyes. “Thank you,” John finally said, his voice choked. “You are a truly amazing man, Sherlock Holmes.”

And with that, John shuffled up the stairs to his bedroom, leaving Sherlock alone with his tea, his thoughts, and his tumultuously roiling emotions that couldn’t decide how best to proceed.

 

The next day, after their usual late-night conversation by the fire, Sherlock noticed that John was inching his way up the stairs in a particularly pained manner. Having made note of this fact, Sherlock watched his flatmate carefully for the next several days and noticed the same pattern. Finally, after an entire week of observation, Sherlock stood at the foot of the stairs and refused to let John walk up. “Why don’t you just sleep down here?” he suggested, gesturing backwards towards Sherlock’s bedroom and the couch. “It’d be much easier on your knees than trudging up and down those stairs twice a day.”

“That’s ridiculous,” John scoffed, attempting to manoeuver around Sherlock. “I can walk up stairs just fine.”

“For now,” Sherlock said. “But it’s not easy. Just stay here, John.”

“No.”

“I insist.”

“I’m not sleeping on the couch.”

“Nor should you. Take my bed.”

“Then where will you sleep?”

“On the couch, of course.”

“That’s stupid, Sherlock.”

“Fine, then I’ll take your bed.”

“You’re even worse at stairs than I am!”

“So?”

“So…so…” John took a deep breath. “So, if you insist on being an arse and not letting me use my proper bed, we at least have to share yours.”

Sherlock’s mind went blank. “Sorry?” he said, the world spinning.

“You have a fucking enormous bed, Sherlock,” John pointed out. “As long as half of it isn’t covered in black mould or whatever the hell you’ve been trying to grow on the eggs -”

“-a variant strain of algae.”

“….alright. As long as half of your bed isn’t covered in _that_ , it wouldn’t kill us to share. Just for one night, until you come to your senses and let me climb stairs again.”

Sherlock’s mind and heart were completely divided within his body, his head chanting “NO, NO, NO”, and his heart thumping, “YES, YES, _YES GODDAMN IT!_ ” Sherlock was at a loss for words. Every fantasy, every wish he’d ever had centered around the use of that bed. And now John Watson had invited himself into it. He wasn’t sure if his frail, old heart could take it.

“Of course,” Sherlock finally stuttered out. “Good plan.”

John scoffed and shuffled off towards the closed bedroom door. “It’s a rubbish plan,” he called out over his shoulder. “But you’re an arse, so I’m plenty used to rubbish plans.”

A smile crept over Sherlock’s face almost entirely by accident. Thirty years later, Sherlock was finally sharing a bed with the love of his life. Most likely nothing would come of it, and nothing would change, but at least…at least Sherlock had this. This one night. To at least pretend.

 

It turned out that the bed-sharing arrangement went on for a lengthy period of time. John stayed on his side, Sherlock stayed on his, and the arrangement was entirely platonic. When John returned from his daily walk one Wednesday, he discovered a new chest of drawers in Sherlock’s room, filled with all his jumpers and clothing from upstairs. The doctor never mentioned it, but Sherlock was certain that his tea mugs were slightly more full and his dinner portions slightly more generous for some time after that.

The best days were weekends, when John slept in. Sherlock would inevitably wake at strange hours, sometimes even before sunrise, but John seemed to operate like clockwork. Every weekday morning he’d be up by six and be making breakfast, his side of the bed folded and organized with military corners folded to precision. On weekends, however, the doctor enjoyed sleeping in until at least nine in the morning when the sunlight from the thinly-curtained window would eventually stretch itself across his face.

Every Saturday and Sunday, Sherlock would stay in bed just watching the light and John together. When John slept, years seemed to melt away from his face and render him youthful and relatively carefree once again. The nightmares had been few and far-between since his return to Baker Street, and usually the doctor could be found with a contented smile upon his face. Sherlock was always careful to leave the bed before John awoke, but one day he slipped up.

That day became the absolute best day of his life.

Outside there was a sun shower, which created a particularly beautiful pattern of light on the bed sheets. The sunlight still filtered through the glass, but the raindrops caused the light to warp and split into a kaleidoscope of colours. Slowly, ever so slowly, the light inched towards where John’s head lay against the pillow, and Sherlock lay waiting in anticipation. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of waiting, the glorious, fractured light hit John’s face, and turned him into a veritable stained glass window of light and shadow. Completely in awe, Sherlock just lay there, staring at his love, barely even noticing as two crystal-blue eyes snapped open and focussed on his face.

Suddenly, and without any warning for Sherlock’s battered, bruised heart, John leaned forwards and closed the inch-wide gap between their lips. With a contented sigh that sounded more like a whisper, Sherlock sank into the kiss, revelling in the sensation of John, John, _John_ that he had imagined for so long.

In his dreams usually they were younger, and usually Sherlock was knowledgeable and impressive, but the reality was so, so much better. Sherlock was initially quite clumsy and overenthusiastic, just pressing his lips to any surface of John that he could reach. The doctor’s rumbling laugh didn’t act as a criticism, but rather as an anchor, centering Sherlock back onto John’s dry, welcoming lips. Eventually their arms moved so that they were embracing beneath the sheets, their legs now entwined as well as their lives. Sherlock lost all sense of time lying in that bed, and barely even noticed as the kaleidoscope of light passed over the both of them and rested on the wall above their heads.

The establishment of their relationship changed very little in Sherlock and John’s day-to-day life. They still spent far too much time watching telly, and ate far too many unhealthy foods, and the dynamic of their camaraderie didn’t change. But who was Sherlock to comment when John’s hand settled over his when they sat beside each other in cafes, or how they both chose to spend half the evening in their chairs and the other half curled up together on the sofa. Their nights were spent together, but they were far too old for the basic pleasures that had fuelled Sherlock’s thirty-seven-year-old fantasies. In all honestly, Sherlock found he didn’t really mind. Instead, they just lay as close together as possible, fingers entwined, heads on each other’s shoulders, and chests rising and falling in synchronization. The kissing was fantastic, usually languorous and leisurely, filled with the patience of thirty or more years of waiting.

Shyla didn’t comment on how Sherlock traced patterns over the top of John’s hand the next time she came for dinner, but she did hug the detective a little longer before she left. She approved.

For Sherlock, this entire experience of loving John and receiving his love in return was strange. It all felt like some fantastic, surreal dream that was too good to be true.

 

And then, suddenly, it was.

 

John began to forget. At first it was only little things, like whether or not they’d bought new milk, or where he’d put his keys. But then it became more of a problem, with the doctor forgetting what month it was or that he was supposed to phone Shyla. John never, _ever_ forgot to phone Shyla.

Eventually Sherlock managed to drag John to the hospital, where a bland woman in an equally bland uniform read out the diagnosis. “Alzheimers,” she said. “Progressive dementia.”

Sherlock had already deduced the diagnosis, but hearing it officially made his heart scream.

That night as they sat on the sofa, Sherlock pretended not to feel the warm, wet drops that were falling from John’s eyes onto his cheek and down his collar. Hands fisted in John’s jumper, Sherlock stayed still, acting as John’s rock, as something solid to hold on to and to remember. _Why,_ he asked no one, _why did we wait so long?_

            Discussion of John’s care wasn’t ever brought up. John knew that if he mentioned it, Sherlock would insist he stay at 221B with him, and that if John ever tried to combat it, Sherlock would only become more resolute in his decision. So, the plan for the future became accepted.

            Shyla would visit as often as she could, but her job had her travelling more than she wanted to given her father’s situation. During one of these hasty, emotional visits, Sherlock met Patrick, and deduced that Shyla had found herself a wonderful gentleman with a proper, reliable future. When Christmas came around, Sherlock received a lovely card from the couple as well as a new, vivid orange scarf as a sort of joke. John laughed at the gift, and Sherlock genuinely believed that the doctor understood who had given it and why.

Sherlock regulated John’s memantine use and dosage, ensuring that he never forgot to take the slightly useful medicine. Packages of the drugs continuously arrived at the doorstep, for which Sherlock sent Mycroft a relatively personal and thoughtful Christmas card. The changes to John’s sleep pattern were harder to deal with, as the doctor would wake suddenly in the middle of the night or collapse terrifyingly during the middle of the day, but Sherlock would do his best to help. He would play his violin, Tchaikovsky, Vivaldi, Mozart, to try and soothe his lover, and bring his focus back to the present. Every time this happened, without fail, John would cry, and Sherlock would squeeze his hands, and they’d rest their foreheads together until John felt like he could try to sleep again.

No words ever needed to be spoken.

On one of John’s more lucid days, he asked if they could walk down to Hyde Park. Sherlock agreed enthusiastically, holding his lover’s hand all the way to a bench right on the edge of the serpentine. The two old men ignored the strange looks they received, completely absorbed in the beauty of the moment and of each other.

They sat for a very long time on that bench, staring out at the water and the green park beyond. Their hands never budged, still securely wrapped in one another on the bench between them. Finally, as the sun began to set and cover the entire landscape in its orange-red glow, John spoke.

“Don’t let me forget this,” he said vehemently, tears squeezing out from the corners of his eyes. “Please, Sherlock, whatever happens, whatever comes next, don’t let me forget this.”

A lump rose in Sherlock’s throat as he saw John, bathed in golden light, staring straight back at him. “I won’t,” he said, his voice a strangled sob. “I promise John, I won’t.”

John nodded, his gaze still fixed on the detective as he moved his head forwards for a kiss. Sherlock returned the motion, and that kiss, that moment on the park bench, with the sunset, was what their entire lives had led up to. A moment of complete and total commitment, of devotion, and of sheer, unadulterated, genuine love. A moment of perfect balance.

 

Six years later, Shyla and Patrick would visit London with their three-year-old son. They didn’t go to Baker Street – no one lived there anymore. Instead, they went to Hyde Park. Their little boy loved to feed the ducks that frequented the Serpentine, and Shyla and Patrick enjoyed the quiet solitude that the park provided. Every time they visited, they would walk the edge of the man-made river from toe to tail before finally doubling back to stop at a bench almost exactly in the middle.

Jonathan Scott Turner never really understood why his parents liked the park so much. He enjoyed it because of the ducks, but his mum and dad always seemed to be a little bit sad when they visited. Maybe if they took him up on his offer to share his breadcrumbs for the ducks they’d be happier, but Jonathan never particularly concerned himself with such things. They were only boring grown-ups, after all.

 

When Doctor John Watson had finally passed on, he’d been buried in a cemetery in Abingdon next to Mary Watson, his wife of twenty-five years. When Sherlock had died four years later, he’d been buried at the Holmes family plot on their estate, next to his brother Mycroft. Shyla, Patrick, and an old, lonely looking man named Lestrade had been the sole attendees of the private service.

It was exactly what John and Sherlock had wanted. Their remains, their ashes, belonged with their families, with what had tied them to the earth for so long. Their hearts, however, had ultimately belonged to each other.

On a single stretch of asphalt, almost exactly in the center of the Hyde Park Serpentine pathway, there is a park bench. On that bench, many years ago, in a single golden moment, two men sat together and made promises to one another. To this day, their promise lives on in the form of a single plaque, tastefully understated and purchased just a few months after they had sat there together. For those who didn’t know these men, the phrase is simple and romantic. For those who did, like Shyla and Patrick, it is so much more. It is the musings of a heart that had never thought it would be loved.

 

 

_You never forgot, and I will never forget._

_Yours, always, SH_

**Author's Note:**

> This was a really intriguing and challenging piece to write, and I'm happy that it turned out relatively okay. Most of what I write never makes it further than the 'deleted items' folder on my laptop, but for some reason I liked this one enough to post it. Hopefully you can see the happy elements of this story as well as the sad, because, with Sherlock and John just like everyone else, you can't have a story without bits of both happiness and tragedy. 
> 
> Ever yours, sneakyslytherin


End file.
